


Minor Mischief and Major Keys

by theinkwell33



Series: The Cryptid Chronicles [4]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Cacti but make them metaphorically resonant, Gen, M/M, Music, Orchids, POV Outsider, Platonic Relationships, Post-Apocalypse, South Downs Cottage (Good Omens), cocoa, cottage cryptids
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-22
Updated: 2020-02-22
Packaged: 2021-02-27 19:33:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,405
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22851040
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theinkwell33/pseuds/theinkwell33
Summary: Jenny has just inherited a random cottage somewhere in England. It's empty, sad, and probably haunted. When she arrives to restore it, it's nothing like what she expects, but if the friendly gentlemen with the greenhouse next door are any indication, that might not be so much of a bad thing.Meanwhile, Crowley and Aziraphale have a new neighbor.
Relationships: Aziraphale & Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Series: The Cryptid Chronicles [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1509494
Comments: 61
Kudos: 807





	Minor Mischief and Major Keys

**Author's Note:**

> Hello, friends! Now that the Big Bang is over (wahoo!), I've had time to finally finish writing this latest installment. You may have seen part of this when it was still in development during the live write back in January, but it's finally all done! I hope you enjoy!

The cottage is exactly how they left it. Dishes clean and put away, curtains parted to yield a glimpse of the roiling ocean, bookshelves a little dusty, and the access to Crowley’s greenhouse secured by a locked sliding door.

Aziraphale enters first, pocketing the key into the folds of his cream-colored raincoat. It’s been pouring since they left London, and water droplets slide from the hems onto the fuzzy welcome mat he’d insisted on purchasing for days such as this. Behind him, Crowley awkwardly closes a black umbrella, which he immediately deposits into the snake-themed stand by the door.

The place smells a little musty, but that’s to be expected after they’ve been gone for so long. The last time they were here was for the New Year, when they’d hosted a post-apocalypse reunion. Newt and Anathema showed up with the wine, Shadwell and Madame Tracy brought some kind of dip that turned out to be rather disgusting, and Adam came escorted by his extremely bemused, bundt-cake bearing parents. It’s odd having the place feel so empty after such a large gathering, but Aziraphale is certain it’ll feel homey again in no time.

He sheds his coat and hangs both his and Crowley’s in the nearby closet, then sets about opening the windows. The fresh smell of rain banishes any mustiness in no time, and when Aziraphale comes back to the living room after opening the last window, he finds Crowley has already put the kettle on, the dear boy.

Aziraphale pulls down the old teapot with the apple tree on it, and sets up a tea service for two. He knows Crowley is in the greenhouse setting up the plants he brought down from London, so he gives him that time. These plants are the ones who are too finicky (or as Crowley would say, too weak); they need the consistent care of someone who will effectively keep them in line.

The other plants, the heartier (read: obedient) ones, are left in the London flat under the care of Crowley’s sitter, Maya. Maya has now been trained in Professional Plant Hydration, Plant Nutrition 101, and Language Modification to “Motivate” Wilters. Maya has also recently been brought up to speed as to how to care for Crowley’s new tortoise, Timothy, which involves a bit more of a nurturing hand and a repertoire of selected lullabies. For the next month, she will be video chatting with Crowley weekly to provide updates and allow him to inspect the plants for weaknesses.

The kettle whistles, and Aziraphale quickly removes it from the heat until the screech dies away. After carefully monitoring the temperature, he sets the pot to steep a rather nice lavender earl grey. He purchased these tea leaves from Mr. Zhang’s shop last week, and hopes Crowley will appreciate the aromatic nature of this blend as much as he does. 

The last touch is to arrange a few biscuits onto a plate. He’ll put away the rest of the groceries they bought later, and maybe start on baking some scones. But for now, tea.

It’s gotten rather dark due to the rainstorm, so he switches on a couple lamps until the space has a warm glow. He sets the tea tray on the little glass table by the window, but Crowley is still in the greenhouse. He goes to the sliding door and opens it a crack, ready to usher his friend inside, but above the snapping sound of raindrops against the glass roof, he can hear Crowley talking with someone.

Rather than intrude, Aziraphale quietly slides the door closed again. He slips back into the kitchen, selects a third teacup from the cabinet, and sets the table for three. It seems they’re going to have a visitor.

* * *

Jenny Lopez is a violinist from Tucson, is very, very tired from her trans-Atlantic flight, and is not a fan of the rain that is currently falling. She is twenty three years old, her mother passed away two months ago, and in the wake of that loss, she has inherited a random cottage somewhere in England.

So, she’s flown in, taken a train, rolled her soggy suitcase down a neat little sidewalk, and is now at said cottage. It isn’t at all what she was expecting. She’s only been to this place once and it was years ago, when she was too small to see over the kitchen’s gray granite countertop. Now, the place seems smaller and sadder than she remembers. All the windows are dark and shuttered.

She didn’t even know her mother actually owned this place. She thought it was a one-off vacation destination, or one of those Timeshares that were all the rage back then. Then again, it is impossible to know much about her mother, because she abruptly left to move back to England when Jenny was six and never looked back.

After her college graduation, Jenny moved to a cramped apartment rather than live at home with her dad. This ended up being a poor decision, because the thin walls ensured she couldn’t practice her music without getting complaints yelled through the walls in three languages. Her father let her come home to practice anyway. 

Before he had passed away the year before, it had always been just the two of them. They made tres leches cake for each other on their birthdays, sang songs on the patio on warm desert nights, and rated the misshapen saguaros they drove by in her dad’s beat up truck. But now that her parents are gone, she doesn’t have any other family, unless you count the abuela she’s never met who lives in Querétaro.

Jenny had accepted at that point that she’d be on her own in her gross little apartment. She couldn’t keep the house for financial reasons, and it wasn’t like she could go live with her mom.

Which makes this cottage thing all the more surprising. Aside from the somewhat perfunctory Barbie birthday card her mother sent every year, they never talked. And the cards were even more tone deaf when one considered Jenny looks absolutely nothing like a Barbie and has disliked them since third grade. But Jenny never expected any kind of bequest, let alone an entire property in another country.

The existence of the cottage is one of many things she only found out after her mother’s funeral (which she did not attend).

There are no answers upon first glance inside the small cottage by the sea. Jenny stands in the entryway, her boots dripping onto the wood floor. The place is almost empty. Sparse furniture, blinds drawn, dusty and cold atmosphere. It’s old and weathered. Probably haunted.

It seems one of her mother’s friends cleaned out the space after she passed, but some detritus still remains. Old, smudged remnants of a life. The bits nobody thought to efface. Jenny wants to mourn her loss, the way those books say you should, but she can’t. She wants to feel properly sad, but this place is the barren home of a stranger whose actions she will never understand. It is the abandoned dwelling of someone who abandoned her, and here Jenny is, treading on the soft wood, invading this sanctuary.

There are recipe books on the shelf in the kitchen, one partially singed. This checks out; the very few memories of her mother tend to involve the fact that she couldn’t cook to save her life, she burned _everything_. Jenny runs a thoughtful hand over the seared edge of the hardcover book.

She pulls out a decrepit tin of tea leaves from the kitchen cabinet, but they’re so old they don’t even have a fragrance anymore. Jenny flips the tin over. _Expiry Date 12 August 2006._ She dumps the leaves in the trash and rinses the tin to reuse it.

Her suitcase remains in the entrance hallway. Jenny leaves it there, intent on exploring the rest of this place. In the bathroom, she is horrified to find a potted orchid devoid of most petals and probably of all life. Whoever cleaned this place out before she got here left the orchid for a reason, but _why_? It is clearly dying or dead. No one has taken care of it for a long time.

For some reason, which Jenny will probably work out in therapy someday, the whole orchid thing sends her into some sort of frenzy. She picks up the orchid by its little pot, walks right back out of the cottage into the rain, and strides across the street to the only other cottage with its lights on. 

It’s got a greenhouse, from what she can see of the glass-roofed extension to the side of the place. Maybe they know plants. Maybe they can help perform emergency resuscitation on _this_ plant, because Jenny sure can’t. Who do you call in plant emergencies anyway? Is there a plant ambulance? A plant hospital? Why don’t they have those? That would be a million dollar idea. You could save thousands of tiny plant lives.

Before she makes it to the front door of the cottage, however, somebody steps out of the greenhouse door and points at her. “Oi! Hey! You!”

“Please! Can you help me?” Jenny calls, abruptly changing course to beeline to where this skinny individual stands. He’s taller up close, and looks like someone in a punk rock band. He’s wearing sunglasses, but the incongruity doesn’t even occur to her right now, rain notwithstanding. She’s too focused on-

“The plant?” asks the man. His hair is saturated by rain and drips onto his face. “I figured. You have that characteristic _oh no it’s dead_ panic and you _are_ holding a horrifyingly wilted orchid.”

“How did you-“

“I keep houseplants, I know the look.” He motions with his head for her to follow him inside the greenhouse. “Come on, I’ll fix him up.”

“Him?”

“The orchid.”

Not really in any position to refuse, given the rain and the plant in dire need, she follows him into the glowing glass room.

It’s humid in here, and several spray bottles are hung on racks above a small collection of plants. There aren’t as many as she expected; she thought the place would be full.

“I know, it’s sparse,” he says, as if on cue. “We just got back here today. I brought as many as I could, but the rest are still at my flat.”

“Can you read minds?” she blurts before she has time to censor herself. Wow, jet lag is one heck of a drug.

“Heh,” the man chuckles ominously, wiping rain from his brow. “Not all of them, just some.” And as if that was a perfectly normal thing to say, he continues without pausing, “Here, let me see the orchid.” 

He stretches out his long arms and takes the pot from Jenny’s embrace. He flicks on a lamp above the long table in the corner and sets the pot down to inspect it. He pokes and prods in urgent silence for several minutes. During this time, a few things occur to Jenny.

  1. Does she need to _pay_ this man for plant ER services?
  2. She is in the home of a total stranger and could very definitely get murdered. Nobody would find her for years because, well, who would come looking for her inside the greenhouse of some man’s cottage in England?
  3. She isn’t wearing her coat, and even though it’s summer, the rain brings an uncomfortable chill. 
  4. She could do with a cup of tea. Or coffee. Or cocoa.



The man utters a soft, disgruntled “Hmmm.”

She squares her shoulders and tries to look tough. “Well?”

“Prognosis is not good.”

“So…”

“Well. ’S pretty much dead. What happened to it? Did you forget to water it or something?” His demeanor is openly disdainful; Jenny prickles in defense.

“It’s not mine. Or, well, I guess it is mine _now_. It was my mom’s. She died two months ago. Apparently, she left me the place across the street. I just flew in today, I’ve only been here about…” she checks her watch. “Thirty minutes.”

Something in the man’s demeanor shifts, and his posture goes from tense and protective to welcoming. It’s as if he thought she hurt the orchid on purpose and was angry with her at first. But now that he knows that’s not true, he feels okay treating her like a guest.

“Ohhhh, you’re Cheryl’s kid.” His eyebrow goes up. “Didn’t know she had a kid.”

Jenny notes he doesn’t say anything along the lines of _sorry for your loss,_ or _you must be heartbroken_. She was bracing for it, but relaxes now that she doesn’t have to be defensive. “She left when I was six.”

The man hunches his shoulders as if he’s angry on her behalf. “And this is Cheryl’s orchid? Why didn’t anyone tell me, I could’ve taken it in before it got in this state.”

“I get the impression my mom wasn’t great at telling people things. She was kind of a careless person.”

“Mm.”

They stare at the orchid in silence for a while. “So…there’s no saving this thing?” she asks finally.

“Oh, I didn’t say that.” The man turns the orchid in a circle with two fingers on the pot, scanning the media for signs of something inscrutable. “I’d say it’s only mostly dead. I might be able to bring it back, but it’s going to need to go somewhere where it’ll be well cared for if it survives that. You have no idea what something like this does to a plant’s self esteem.”

Actually, Jenny thinks she has a very good idea, but she just nods.

“I can take it for a little, until it’s recovered,” says the man. “I have space in my greenhouse. We’ll be here for about a month, but I do come down to check on things throughout the year too. Do you have anyone you trust to give it a better life?”

“Well, no. I don’t know anyone here yet. And frankly, this isn’t how I imagined introducing myself to the neighbors.”

The man sighs as if disappointed.

“But,” Jenny says, marveling at how his head snaps up like it’s on a string, “I could probably look after it if I knew what to do.”

“How long are you staying?” There’s something hopeful in his tone.

“At least a month. Depends on how things go; I’m working out all the details still. Might be moving here for good, unless I decide living in a haunted cottage is actually _worse_ than my squalid apartment.”

“I can teach you, if you want. How to care for the orchid,” the man offers. His voice is softer than it should be, given his ridiculous punk rock look.

“That would be awesome, I really appreciate it. Can I pay you? For your trouble?”

“No,” scoffs the man. “Just don’t let it die again and I’ll consider us good.”

“Oh. Okay.” There’s a pause. “Thank you.”

“I’m Crowley,” he says suddenly, holding out his hand. Jenny takes it in hers, and notes his hand is cold. Very cold.

“I’m Jenny. Nice to meet you.”

“So you’re taking Cheryl’s cottage,” he muses, and goes back to fussing with the orchid. He adds some water, and adds some moss from a bag he has on a nearby shelf. “Is it weird for you? Being there?”

“Yeah. But everyone’s gotta face their demons, right?”

Crowley laughs. A proper, amused laugh. “Yeah, they do.”

Jenny doesn’t understand why that’s funny. Maybe she will, one day.

The sliding door at the other end of the greenhouse opens, and she jumps. She hadn’t realized anyone else was here. “Oh!” she gasps, as another man walks in, holding a tea towel. His sleeves are rolled and cuffed at his elbows, and he is wearing an absurd little waistcoat over it. His light hair is rather wild and curly, likely exacerbated by the humidity and the rain. He has a kind, sunny sort of face, as if he is the sort of man you’d hope to be comforted by when you’re having a very bad day.

“Er, hello,” says the other man with a small smile. “Crowley, tea’s getting cold, would you care to invite your friend inside?”

* * *

Jenny finds herself being escorted into the cottage and guided to a chair at a glass table. The fluffy man pours her tea into an incredibly fancy teacup, and Crowley sits in a boneless slouch on her other side.

“Hi, I’m Jenny,” she says, extending a hand. 

The man takes it with a surprisingly firm grip, and says, “Nice to meet you, Jenny. Can you tell me what this is all about? We rarely get visitors, it’s lucky we were even here. Just got in this afternoon.”

“Um, Crowley was just helping me with an orchid emergency. I found one that had been sort of left for dead in my mom’s old cottage. I’m restoring it. The cottage, I mean. Well, and the orchid too, now, I guess.”

“Oh!” The man looks concerned. Where the expression would ordinarily harden someone’s features, on him it seems to make him seem even softer. He levels a gaze at Crowley. “Is there anything I can do to help?”

“No, no, no,” grins Crowley, and he wags a finger. “You’re not going anywhere _near_ these plants, angel, you’re too nice to them, they’ll just get ideas.”

“Not even the orchid? He must be in quite a state. Could use some tender-“

“Nope, not happening.” Crowley gestures with his own teacup. The effect is incongruous, the cup perched daintily in his hand, a porcelain rose amid his black nails and thorny-looking snake bracelet. “Let me handle it. It’ll be fine. That orchid’s been through enough, he won’t enjoy being coddled.”

Jenny watches this exchange, having to remind herself that this is actually happening right in front of her. These people are like fictional characters, but they’re _real_.

“Oh, very well, then,” Crowley’s friend sighs, acquiescing at last. “At any rate, I fear I’ve been terribly rude in abandoning the proper introductions, Jenny. I’m Aziraphale. Do have some biscuits,” he adds, offering the plate.

She takes two gratefully, marveling silently at his name. That’s quite a lot of syllables. “Nice to meet you. Um. Thank you both, by the way. Uh, for the tea. And for helping with the orchid and everything. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to impose on your whole afternoon.”

“‘S fine. We only just got in, still unpacking,” says Crowley with a flippant handwave. “Don’t have anything on tonight.”

“You’re welcome to stop by in the future too, if you like,” offers Aziraphale. “Crowley no doubt told you already, but we’ll be here for a month or so, and we make occasional visits. Now, tell me - which do you prefer? The almond biscuit, or the chocolate?”

Nobody could have convinced Jenny that this was how her day was going to go, but honestly, drinking tea with her extremely hospitable neighbors is better than every scenario she ever expected. Maybe things aren’t going to be so bad, if she’s already met people like Crowley and Aziraphale, even if they are a little odd.

They’ seem overjoyed to help with her improbable problem and she barely knows them. Her motivation to make them proud settles like a seed in her chest. She’s going to get that orchid back up on its feet (do orchids have feet?), no matter what it takes. 

* * *

The next day is when things get a little weird.

Crowley rings the cottage doorbell around noon, and Jenny has to wade her way through the mess she’s created in her efforts to repurpose the space just to get to the door.

When she opens it, Crowley is standing there in his sunglasses, holding her orchid. Although it’s impossible it’s her orchid, because this one is blooming and full of life. But it’s in a very familiar pot.

She frowns. “Is that-“

“Yep,” says Crowley. “Can I come in? I think I owe you an explanation.”

“Uh, yeah, hang on, it’s a mess in here,” she stutters, and holds the door open for him to walk inside.

Crowley gives a low whistle when he takes in the place. “Whoa.”

“Yeah, I know, I’m sorry.”

“No, no. ‘S not you. I mean whoa, this place is really…barren.”

“Yeah, somebody moved out all her stuff before I got here.”

“No, I mean, emotionally. Some places feel _loved_ , some places have that feeling where good things happened there. Others feel...spooky. Bad. Like prickles on the back of your neck. _This_ place feels…empty. Barren. It needs some love.”

“…Oh. Um. Are you a psychic?” There isn’t really another question she can ask at this point.

He scoffs. “Please, no.”

“How do you know about the _barren_ thing, then?”

“I could tell you, but you probably wouldn’t like it.”

She blinks. At this point, maybe it’s better just to accept the weirdness. “Oh. ‘Kay.” 

“Anyway,” Crowley shakes his head, as if to dislodge something in his mind. “Here’s your orchid. His name is Stanley.”

“How is he…um...It’s been, like, a day.”

Crowley pinches the bridge of his nose under his sunglasses. “Yeah…I made the mistake of introducing him to Aziraphale last night after you left, and they got on like a house on fire. I guess Aziraphale got a little carried away, and there was some healing involved, and, well, good as new. I would’ve preferred to go about it my way, but hey, Stanley’s fine now. That’s what matters.”

Jenny doesn’t really know what to say. “Uhhhhh,” is what her genius brain generates in the moment.

“So, I’m here with a set of instructions for how to care for Stanley, along with Aziraphale’s written apology. He feels terrible. I told him he didn’t have to, but he insisted, ‘S just how he is. Oh, and he also wants to invite you over for dinner tomorrow. He’s rarely this friendly, you must’ve impressed him somehow.”

Crowley hands her a long printed list of steps for care, written in Comic Sans font for some unknowable reason. There’s red text scrawled at the top that warns, DON’T SKIP THE ADMONISHMENTS, I WILL KNOW. 

Paperclipped to the list is also a handwritten note in an envelope that has been sealed with gold wax. A wing symbol has even been pressed into it. The paper itself smells like summertime and sweet cream.

Jenny blinks. “Thank you.” It comes out like a question.

“Every Tuesday until one of us leaves, come over to the greenhouse at three and we’ll go over what you’ve learned. Bring Stanley. I want to leave him in capable hands. And Aziraphale says you’re welcome to read in the library anytime you want. That’s usually where he likes to spend his time.”

“Oh, okay.” She tries not to look surprised. They have a _library_ in their cottage? Who _are_ these people?

Crowley nods, satisfied, sets Stanley on the kitchen counter, and departs back out the door without another word.

Jenny rushes out after him, a ridiculous question prompting her forward. “Wait.” She almost asks, _Are you magic?_ and stops. That’s dumb, she can’t ask that.

“Do you name all your plants?” she settles on instead.

Crowley turns on the step, eyebrows raised. “Huh? Oh. Nah. Aziraphale likes to name them, but I don’t. He gets too attached, he loves them. Then, if they die, he’s inconsolable for days. It’s terribly inconvenient.”

“Oh.”

Crowley scratches the back of his neck. “They’re just plants. I only keep them ‘cause I want them to live up to their potential. I don’t get attached.”

This sounds like a lie, but Jenny’s not sure Crowley _knows_ it’s a lie. “So Aziraphale named him Stanley?”

“Yeah, not sure where that came from, but it’s fine.”

“But _you_ call him by his name.”

“‘S his name. We can’t just...take it back, call him nothing at all. Not _now_ that he’s got a _name._ ”

“...Okay. Listen, um, if you just bought me a new orchid to replace the one that died, you can just tell me. I’ll pay you back for whatever it cost. You don’t have to, like, make up some story about how it got magically restored. I didn’t know it long enough to get attached, you’re not sparing my feelings by lying.”

Crowley looks at her as though he’s tempted to say something important. Instead, he merely shrugs. “Fine, yeah, okay. It was about thirty five.”

In a weird way, her heart sort of sinks when she realizes the original orchid actually did die. She’d hoped...but well. At least she has a new one now, Stanley 2.0. Jenny resolves to protect this one. _She_ will _not_ let it down.

Jenny wrestles her wallet out of her jeans (they never make the pockets big enough) and counts out the money carefully; she’s not used to the currency and it feels bulky in her hands. “Here, sorry for your trouble. I’ll take care of the new one.”

“Oh no, it was my pleasure,” Crowley says, taking the bills with two fingers, then bringing them up into a salute. “Read that list of care tasks, by the way. There’ll be a quiz.”

Jenny doesn’t have time to question him more. He’s already sauntering across the street with a sense of accomplishment she can’t help but envy. 

* * *

That afternoon, Crowley makes the mistake of telling Aziraphale about his interaction with Jenny. The money’s burning a hole in his very, very tiny trouser pocket and he can’t just keep this to himself. 

He makes an even graver mistake by recounting all of this during Aziraphale’s reading time. The worst part is that when the angel shuts his book with a snap, Crowley sees it’s Little Women again, which only ever puts Aziraphale in a bad mood. Why does he even bother rereading the ones he dislikes?

Crowley should’ve _known_ this wasn’t going to go well.

Aziraphale regards him from across the room, tipping his ridiculous reading glasses down to emphasize his disapproval. “You _stole money_ from that sweet American girl?”

“Angel, it’s not my fault she didn’t believe me when I told her you healed Stanley.”

“ _Crowley_. That’s unacceptable.”

“I don’t hear you use that word often.” Crowley props his elbows on his knees and leans forward in his chair.

“Well. It _is_. That poor girl’s been through enough without you robbing her-”

“-’M not robbing her, she gave it to me-”

“-You _asked_ her to-”

“-For the record, I _was_ honest first-”

“-But then you took her money _anyway-_ ”

“Angel, she didn’t think I was serious about the healing. She thought I was putting her on. I figured it’d be easier to just tell her I bought a new one than explain. What was I supposed to say? _Oh here, see, I’m an occult being staying with an angel in our shared cottage. Aziraphale also pulled a Lazarus on your orchid, sorry, ha ha_. She’d never come back if we scared her off, and I need her to learn how to take care of Stanley properly.”

“You still shouldn’t have taken her money. You must return it.”

“What if I don’t?” Crowley needles, feeling irritable. He idly wonders what’s making him like this.

“Then your tea will be cold every day until we get back to London,” huffs Aziraphale, who then props his ridiculous glasses back up on his nose and returns to his book.

* * *

The subsequent weeks at the cottage pass in a delightful blur for Jenny. Her return flight was supposed to be the previous Sunday, but she’s already rescheduled it for another three weeks from Thursday. At first, she hated her mother’s old cottage, but as she’s begun to make a life here, the more she realizes she doesn’t want it to be temporary. The cottage, now that it has been more lived in, more loved, is starting to feel like a home. She might consider moving here for good.

That is, assuming she can get the hang of navigating interactions with her neighbors. She’s begun a mental list of notes chronicling the strange things she’s witnessed during her visits, but it in no way has helped her prepare for what to expect every time she walks into the greenhouse to present Stanley for inspection. 

Her observations:

1\. Aziraphale makes them tea or some other warm, cozy beverage each time. Crowley sips his, gives Aziraphale an odd, irritated look, then puts his cup back in his saucer. He never drinks more than that first sip.

2\. When Jenny asks for the dead orchid she’d originally brought to Crowley, “to bury it”, he looks at her with almost amused exasperation. “Focus on Stanley,” us all he says. “Once you’re able to fully manage him, we’ll trust you with bigger stuff.” Jenny then gets the sense he isn’t talking about orchids anymore.

3\. Aziraphale’s scones always finish baking just as she and Crowley are finishing up their tutoring sessions. But somehow, she never sees him do any dishes, or use the oven. He just brings out a plate of them, and they’re already warm and moist and filled with juicy blackcurrants. It’s probably nothing, but it still bothers her.

4\. There’s a small, rather impressionistic painting on their living room wall of a very beautiful garden, with a small red-bellied snake taking up most of the foreground. “Oh yeah, Aziraphale painted that for me in 1880. He went through an art phase,” Crowley says fondly, when Jenny asks about it. He seems fond of telling her things that are outrageously untrue. It’s probably a coping mechanism for something.

5\. Crowley has a soft side. 

It all comes out when Jenny marches into a lesson one day with a plan. “I’ve decided, I’m not a huge fan of ‘admonishing’ the plants,” she tells him. “I don’t like yelling at Stanley 2.0, or any of yours. It feels wrong.”

“His name is Stanley. Just Stanley,” Crowley corrects, without looking up from screwing the top of the plant mister closed.

“Whatever,” Jenny shrugs, and hefts her violin case onto the workbench. “It’s a good thing I brought my violin with me, because it’s the perfect solution. I am going to play for the plants today instead. They need another influence besides yours, if they’re going to thrive.”

Crowley looks like he’s about to protest, so Jenny plows ahead before he can. “Your plants have Aziraphale here too, you know, and he confessed that when you’re gone, he brings out that old old phonograph or whatever it is and plays happy music for them. So, Stanley’s gonna have _me_ and _my_ music. Besides, music’s good for babies right? So it’s got to be good for plants too.”

Crowley opens his mouth to say something, closes it, then rethinks his statement. “Plants aren’t babies,” he finally objects, but he doesn’t stop her from pulling out her luxuriously smooth instrument. It’s polished and nutty in color, and reflects the fluorescent ceiling lights back at his opaque glasses. 

He watches her play an aggressively jaunty jig with a stoic expression, then says, “That’s enough,” when she finishes. Jenny doesn’t want to risk being _too_ subordinate, so she obeys and puts the violin away.

The next time they meet, though, Crowley sheepishly admits the other plants liked the music, the little traitors, and could she please do it again. Concerts become a regular occurrence at the cottage. 

The Violin Revolution is no longer met with argument, even though it honestly should have been. This is shocking, and does nothing to help Jenny understand her tutor any better. It makes him unpredictable, confusing, and kind of awesome. 

But the best part? Aziraphale sometimes hands her song requests for her next visit written on elaborately embossed notecards, like he’s a hundred and fifty years old.

6\. Sometimes, Crowley’s phone will ring during their session, with the caller ID reading ADAM YOUNG, and he’ll move to a corner of the greenhouse to take the call while Jenny rearranges Stanley’s moss. Whoever Adam is, he seems to have a lot of questions about the strangest of subjects, because the snippets Jenny has heard during these conversations are incredibly unusual.

a) “No,” Crowley said once, “for the last time, you’re not to put me down as your legal guardian. I don’t guard anything, especially you. Ask your parents to sign it, and don’t you dare call Aziraphale, because you know he’ll say yes and that’s the last thing we need.”

b) Two weeks ago: “Dog years and hellhound years aren’t the same. You’re thirteen, it doesn’t matter what _kind of year_ you’re using as measurement. It’s all still just time.”

c) Another notable time, “I wasn’t _in_ Pompeii during the eruption, Adam. Seventy nine AD...let’s see, I was in...Japan. If you want homework help, look it up on Wikipedia, I can’t help you, I don’t know _everything_.”

d) And most recently, “I don’t know where you get these ideas. Parseltongues are frauds, I should know.”

“When do I get to meet this Adam?” she asks on a day when she’s feeling rather bold. Crowley’s already fifteen minutes into a lecture on cacti but she honestly can’t keep her curiosity at bay any longer. “You get calls from him a lot. Is he your son?”

Crowley’s face takes on the expression of someone who, upon half-way through blowing up a balloon, has all the air sent back into his face. “My what?”

“Son. You seem awfully close.” And awfully young to be a father of someone Adam’s age, but she doesn’t say so.

“I’m too old for this,” Crowley mutters, putting a hand over his face. His glasses are probably getting all smudged, but he doesn’t seem to care. He drops his hand. “No. Me and Aziraphale, we’re more like...godfathers. Adam is...unique.”

“Everybody says that about their kids.”

“No, it’s not like that.”

“You’ve got a lot of mystery, you know. In the short time I’ve known you, I thought that you and Aziraphale sharing a cottage with the only greenhouse attachment in the town was enough to make you different. But sometimes you say some frankly bananas stuff,” she argues. “Are you ever going to tell me what’s really going on with you guys?”

“Funny thing is, I already have, you just don’t seem to see it. ‘S all right, not everyone can.” He pats her on the shoulder with finality, even though, to Jenny, the conversation is _far_ from over. “Anyway. Back to cacti. You know cacti, you’ve seen the big ones out where you’re from, yeah? Giant prickly-”

“My dad called them Señores,” Jenny remembers aloud. “Saguaros. Always looked like they were going to ‘tip a hat to you,’ he said.” She can’t help but sound wistful. She has kept herself occupied here at the cottage, repainting and restoring, breathing life into this soulless cottage and into Stanley 2.0. She hadn’t realized her wounds had partially healed, until thinking about this pricks her _I miss him_ wound all over again.

“I think that’s delightful,” murmurs Crowley. “Seems like a good man, your dad.”

“He was.”

Crowley notes the past tense with a tiny eyebrow twitch, but they don’t stumble down that path any further. For one, because Crowley doesn’t frequently pursue deep personal discussions, Jenny has observed. And for another, Aziraphale chooses that moment to beckon them in for cocoa and a slice of Victoria sponge.

“I tried a new recipe,” Aziraphale gushes as he hands Jenny a mug full of a steaming chocolate concoction. She smells something familiar - something spicy and warm and rich. It can’t be. It is. She can tell. This is the exact kind her father used to make. She even smells almond extract, his secret ingredient.

She takes her mug reverently and puts it to her lips. Somehow, the cocoa is the perfect temperature, the perfect balance of ingredients. She tastes red sweet sunsets. The rich, chocolatey warmth of being loved. The undulating current of heat she always craved when sitting by her dad’s backyard fire pit, scooting closer to the flames as the cold desert night seeped into her skin. She almost cries, it’s so beautiful. _Almost_ being the operative word; if she starts, she won’t be able to stop.

“How did you know?” she asks quietly, fidgeting in her seat at the table. Crowley takes a hopeful sip of his, scowls as if it’s gone cold, and puts his mug aside. Aziraphale eyes him icily, and there’s clearly some sort of unspoken argument going on between them. Jenny doesn’t want to ask. The fatigue of holding tears back dulls her curiosity.

“You’ve told us a bit about your life back home, so I looked up some recipes. Thought I’d give it a try.”

This seems to be underselling the situation slightly, but Jenny’s brain is still muzzy with relief and nostalgia and emotion, so she says nothing other than a meaning-heavy “Thank you.” 

Seeming to sense Jenny’s pensive mood, her hosts proceed to talk about a series of mundane subjects to keep things light. As another thunderstorm encroaches on the cottage, she’s grateful for the shelter, the company, and the taste of memory.

* * *

The next week, Crowley announces Jenny has graduated from Beginner Plant Care. He pats Stanley 2.0’s pot with a congratulatory expression and officially hands him off to her. Aziraphale, wanting to show his support, hands her a sweet little embossed certificate with both his and Crowley’s “signatures”, which are little more than slightly wiggly initials.

She assumes that is the end of the ceremony; she is fully trusted to care for her orchid now, after all. Time for the chick to leave the nest, and all that. But then, Crowley gets a funny look on his face, leaves the room for a moment, then returns with a set of keys and a small potted cactus.

“These are for you,” he says, handing both to her.

Jenny takes them, not understanding. “What-”

Even Aziraphale gives him a _what are you doing_ look Jenny recognizes with fond amusement at this point.

“Oh yes, Aziraphale,” Crowley says upon reading his friend’s expression. “It’s time. I’m sick of cold tea.”

Whatever _that_ means, Jenny thinks.

“Here,” he continues, pointing at the keys. “These are the keys to the greenhouse. One opens the door, the other opens the sprinkler system console for watering. While Aziraphale and I are back in London, I want you to use it. Fill it with the plants you’re taking care of. This greenhouse shouldn’t stay empty, ‘specially when it’s got plants in need of it. You’ve proven you’ll be good to Stanley, so now you can add more to your new family. I bought you one to start.”

She stammers out her gratitude, completely blindsided by this kindness. How long had he been planning to give her access to this place? “I’m...honored.”

“I’ll also give you Maya’s number. She watches my plants in London when I’m here. Text her; who knows, maybe you can learn from each other.”

Jenny files away several choice questions she’d very much like to ask Maya, given the opportunity. _Is Crowley always this weird?_ would be first on the list. She changes the subject, holding the cactus aloft in appreciation. “Did you already name this one?”

“Nah, go ahead. I don’t name them, remember?” he reminds her. Aziraphale lifts an eyebrow in a cheeky fashion but says nothing.

“Looks like a Martin to me,” she says after consideration.

“Martin it is,” agrees Aziraphale. 

After they celebrate with a cake Aziraphale supposedly baked even though the kitchen is pristine, Jenny returns home with the keys, Stanley, and Martin. She sets them on the counter, opens the blinds to let in the late afternoon sunlight, and opens the window. A mellow, warm breeze drifts in. The barren feeling of coldness in the cottage had receded significantly since she's been here; with some time and attention, she could see this being a place full of love. She’s been given a very good example to emulate.

“You’re going to be looked after,” she tells the plants, eyeing her violin case and wondering which of her favorite sonatas she should play to celebrate. “I’ll make sure of it.”

The plants say nothing, but there’s a distinct feeling of _settling in_ that fills Jenny’s heart, something she has sorely missed since her father’s been gone. Who knew she’d find it again with some plants and two eccentric (possibly magical) neighbors?

She’s finally in the proper headspace to consider what she has been pushing to the back of her mind every time she’s seen them lately. What _if_ Crowley had been telling the truth at first, that Aziraphale really did heal Stanley? If this is the very same orchid from before, and not a replacement?

It’s a nice thought, she decides, and she’d like it to be true. She might need a little more proof if she’s going to believe that without question. Although, given the observations she’s already made, perhaps that proof won’t take long to present itself. When it does, it'll be welcome. She has a little plant family now, and by extension, another family in Crowley and Aziraphale. She also has a cottage, a blank canvas where she can heal and grow and thrive. Things are going to be okay.

This place didn’t feel like much when she dragged her suitcase through the door. But now, it’s starting to feel like a home.

She hangs Crowley’s keys on the rack by the front door, unpacks her violin from its case, and as the sun sets against a sapphire sea, she begins to play.

* * *

Meanwhile, Crowley lounges on the sofa, sans sunglasses, while Aziraphale fusses over which record to play this evening. 

“Thank you,” says Aziraphale suddenly. “For what you did.”

“Who says I did anything?”

“I know how much that cactus cost, you old serpent.”

“Mm? Don’t know what you mean.”

“That cactus. The rather high end kind you only find in certain places. The special, expensive type. You used her thirty five pounds to purchase Martin, didn’t you?” It isn’t really a question. Aziraphale already knows the answer, and he is smiling what Crowley now referred to as the _velocipede_ smile, where he knows _exactly_ the fiendish angel he’s being.

“Can neither confirm nor deny.”

“Even if you can’t admit it, I still think you’ve done right by that poor girl.”

Crowley rises from the couch and paces to the greenhouse door. “ _You_ were the one who started this mess in the first place, and then mended it with her father’s cocoa recipe and all the scones and stuff. You did all the _right_ -ness.”

Aziraphale gives him a look.

“All I did,” Crowley says slowly, “was teach someone how to care for an orchid, and give her a cactus. ‘S not personal.”

“Yes, dear, of course it wasn’t,” Aziraphale murmurs, selecting a lovely set of conciertos to play. With an absent wave of his hand, he sets the kettle to boil.

“Do you think she’ll ever realize what actually happened? What you did, healing Stanley? What we are?”

“Does it matter?”

“Mmm, dunno. We’ll have to see, I guess. I want to see how long it takes her to figure it out. It’s always boring when we tell them. With Maya to talk to, she’ll get there soon enough.”

“Very well,” Aziraphale nods. “Now, be a dear and open up that greenhouse door, let the plants listen in. There we are.”

He puts the record to spin, and as the music drifts around them in swirling eddies of harmony, Crowley returns to his position on the couch. A few minutes later, Aziraphale brings him a cup of tea that, for the first time in what feels like _ages_ , is the proper drinking temperature. He lets it sit there, steaming, just to appreciate it for a moment.

Crowley lets his head flop to the side and watches Aziraphale swaying softly to the music, admiring the plants and the home they’ve made. He smells honeysuckle and sanded wood and black tea.

“We’ve come a long way since Eden,” he says softly, and Aziraphale looks over his shoulder at him with a smile.

“We have,” he agrees. “I like where we’re going, don’t you?”

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! Feel free to say hi on tumblr [@splitting-infinities](https://splitting-infinities.tumblr.com).
> 
> I'm planning at least two more fics in the Cryptids series after this one, with a couple surprises (and maybe some deleted scenes) to come. More details soon!


End file.
